


My heart belongs

by Aeshna etonensis (GMWWemyss)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cole Porter (obviously), Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Golf, Hiatus, Housman, Kipling, M/M, Matter of Britain - Freeform, Mild D/s, Mild Kink, Not actually solo artist Zayn, Solo Artist Zayn, Wilton's, doncaster rovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMWWemyss/pseuds/Aeshna%20etonensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn likes to flirt. Liam doesn't mind; they both enjoy the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My heart belongs

**Author's Note:**

> I hope we all had a good Cheltenham. (Unless there are any turf accountants reading....)
> 
> Here. Have some mild amusement whilst I work on greater matters.

* * *

_While tearing off a game of golf_

* * *

When he’d stared out from the tee on the Sixth, he’d made damned well certain a bit of wee had come out in sheer dread. Of course it had, instead, been the Ninth which had been the real downfall: a par three _inside_ a walled garden … only the Irish, honestly.

Now, on the Sixteenth – and, honestly, _bugger_ Horan, _and_ his disgustingly accomplished short game –, Nialler was up six with, obviously, three to play, and no intention of letting him concede. Niall believed in humiliating an opponent to the bitter end.

Sunny, cheery, madcap, carefree Niall his _arse._ Bollocks to _that._ Sod _that_ for a game of –

‘ _You’re_ away,’ said Niall.

Of _course_ he was. Zayn sighed, and lined it up, and scarcely breathed; and of course, scooted it past on the long runaway downhill. Green like a fooking skateboard ramp, honestly, _fooking_ New Forest....

Niall tapped in, carelessly and casually, the way he liked to be thought to do everything. (Zayn knew better. Zayn knew the obsessive, behind-the-scenes training and rehearsal which went into Niall’s careful simulation of casual, natural ease.) ‘No bad wee par-three, this,’ smirked Niall, as he returned his putter to his bag.

‘Piss. _Off._ ’

Niall grinned, wolfishly. ‘Ah, now. Only because your plan failed –’

‘What plan?’ Zayn was actually quite good at portraying doe-eyed innocence. Unfortunately, there were a few people he could never fool with it – and these, just who he commonly most wanted to fool to save his skin. Two were Riachs; five (and his Mum first amongst equals) were his immediate family; and the other four were in One Direction.

‘ _I_ can’t be distracted by your batting your eyes at me, but; although admitting that I’m the only one who can’t.’

‘Oh? Because I saw you falling – literally – all over yourself for golf’s answer to Haz, like....’

‘Ah, Jaysus, and wouldn’t Rory love to be called as _that._ Points for trying, but, No.’

‘You’ve never thought of expanding your horizons, babe?’ Zayn smouldered as only he could: pout, catwalk slink, and all.

Niall simply laughed at him. ‘And is it me whose horizons aren’t broader nor the sky already? There was this time, once, and twins in it, and –’

‘Oh, get stuffed.’

‘I’ll leave that to you, darling boy. Sure and we’d look like Gneil-and-Pterry fan-fiction....’ This, thought Zayn, was true enough, Niall all pink and white and gold and deceptively angelic (the little _shaitan_ ), and him dark and fiery: Aziraphale and Crowley. ‘And for all that,’ said Niall, ‘it isn’t on, whatever. _I’m_ not interested; and it’s not me who’s daft enough to get in the middle of the games you and Himself play, if I _were._

‘Now, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll lay up to the left here on Seventeen … and concentrate on your swing, not on trying to put me aff my own stroke by flirting with me and it not working at all.’

* * *

_To dine on some fine Finnan haddie_

* * *

Haz was a perfectly harmless lunatic, really. Introducing him to California – to that slightly unreal California, at any rate, where no one toiled or delved or span, far from the growing of crops, the digging of ditches, the manufacturing and the actual _work:_ the coastal enclaves of hippies and hipsters and people with far too much dosh and no brains at all – introducing Haz to California had been like introducing Legolas to the sound of seagulls. Or introducing Haz to Louis, come to that. Equally unwise, all ’round.

All the same, Haz remained, at bottom, Haz. And Thoroughly British, beneath the tie-dye. Which is why they were catching up, not in some absurdly overpriced, hypertrophied, ‘fusion’ Vegan-Fairtrade-Locavore-Carbon-Neutral-GMO-Free-Social-Justice eatery on the Pacific Coast of North America where everything was _garnished_ with bloody _hemp,_ but, rather, at Wilton’s. The waiters were waiters, to whom it was a Serious Calling, not rent-boys and actors (as if there were a difference) between tricks or jobs (as if there were a difference). And their view was not of fading stars and rising models, surfers and surf, but of Bury Street and Jermyn Street, Turnbull  & Asser and Hilditch & Key; and Zayn was planning to stroll just up the street after pudding and go in and absorb everything in the Weiss Gallery, where the art was older far than was all America. (That he should lose Haz to the seductions of JM Weston and Crockett & Jones was taken as read. Harry had a wholly undeniable fetish for boots.)

Zayn said as much as they finished their salmon.

‘Yah,’ drawled Haz, with that dreadful grin. ‘But.... D’ you really think it wise to compare fetishes? Because you and –’

‘All right, all _right._ Tosser.’

‘Of, like, salads, maybe, yah.... Needn’t toss anything else when I’ve Boo to do it for me.’

Fortunately, there are upper servants in ducal families less imperturbable and discreet than a waiter at Wilton’s. Zayn preserved all the same the elementary caution of not replying whilst the salmon was taken away and his lamb cutlets, and Harry’s lobster and crab omelette, replaced these.

Haz, of course, was unblushing. ‘’S as well, yah? That _we_ never. We’d have burnt out gloriously, but, y’ know, swiftly. Although … the games you like to play, man. He must _know_ you don’t, would never, play away.... So how do you get him to play along, and be proper jealous like you like, and spank you the way you –’

‘Shut _up,_ Haz, really, not in public. Eat your fooking parsnips – and _lower_ your _voice_!’

‘’M just saying.’ Haz really had _no_ filter. And was so appallingly _earnest_. ‘It’s, like, a _habit,_ yah, you flirting with all of us, even when he’s not here to be teased by it....’

Zayn bit his lips. This was going to want a second bottle of the Pichon Lalande. _And_ the ’52 Niepoort with the pudding.

* * *

_I wouldn’t dream of making the team_

* * *

Tommo was laughing so hard Zayn seriously considered that t’ bugger might choke on his mum’s parkin.

As he was laughing _at_ Zayn, Zayn was wholly disinclined to save him if he _did_ choke, and serve him bloody well right.

Besides which, that should leave more parkin, and Jay’s fat rascals, and butterscotch, for Zayn.

Alas, Louis managed to catch his breath after far too long (well, a single ‘ha’ was, in Zayn’s opinion, far too long, when it was Louis laughing at one...).

‘Sweet, swotty little Zayn beneath it all,’ cackled Tommo. ‘All that fags-and-leather-jackets-and-tats sharn, wanting to be a Proper _’Ard_ Man, and beneath it all … a little speccy swot, dreaming of being swept off his feet by yon sporty lad –’

Zayn took a moment to indulge a fantasy. Not the fantasy Louis was conjuring up: but, rather, how very satisfying it’d be to dump a good quart of mushy peas on the bugger. And then soak him in water and strand him, on coldest night of t’ year, on Ilkley Moor. Without, of course, a hat. Happen bastard’d freeze to death....

‘– aye,’ wheezed Tommo, redder in the face than were the training Rovers on the pitch whom they were ostensibly there to watch; ‘and in changing room, too, happen … with rest of squad watching –’

‘Oh, _fook_ off –’

‘Oh, love, what you and Him Indoors get up to – and off on –’

‘Let me tell _you_ summat, lad –’

‘– it’s no worse than me and Hazza, love. You can bat your eyes and pout those lips and shake that pitiable arse – because, love, let’s be honest, _I’m_ only one of us has an arse –’

‘ _Are_ an arse, more like –’

‘– but we all know, including Him Indoors, who tha’rt going home to at end o’ day. Flirting or no.’

* * *

_For my heart belongs to Daddy_

* * *

Liam.... Solid, dependable, Liam, like the Midlands walking and incarnate. Even in leafy Surrey, where the London-born, Home-Counties, all-too-urban patina now covered over the little woods and streams, the villages with their ancient greens and cricket pitches, preserving them in form even as it killed the old companionable village life in them … Liam was Liam. Proud in his craft, and justly proud, yet humble in himself; mild, yet with basalt beneath, and, beside the basalt, stored ancient riches unseen, like coal measures: Liam was Liam, the Black Country and Wolvo incarnate, the land as father, at once the heart and the soul of England. He was his country, as it unfurled, unscrolled, like a tapestry flung, as it might be seen from Barr Beacon or Turners Hill, Clent or the Clees, the distant Wrekin and the Long Mynd far, unrolled to view: bourne and beacon, field and factory, oak and hedgerow, city, village, and town, all England _in parvo,_ solid and sure.

From the off, Liam had wanted the certainty, the captaincy of his fate and destiny, and took the responsibility and the burden with it as a matter of course.

From the off, Zayn – too long and too young the ‘little man’ of the family, and ‘man of the house’ when his father had been away – had been in desperate want, amidst the chances and upsets and sudden alarums and excursions, of being led, of a submission – that specially loaded term, to him – and a guidance.

He wanted the assurance of surrender as much and as deeply as Liam wanted the certainty, the sureness, the comfort of control.

He wanted, also, avidly, the smack on the bum as well as, as much as, the _guiding_ hand: the penance and absolution given most uncanonically beforehand; the permission to give in, to succumb to temptation.

He was a live wire; and he wanted earthing.

He didn’t want Irish cavaliers, or spiky hedgehogs from his own thrawn Yorkshire with its pawky humour, or the lingering grin of a vanishing Cheshire cat. He wanted Liam, his rock and foundation, who should be the Midlands with its slow, steady certainty whether they were in California or Japan; as much amidst East Anglian fens or Welsh mists or West Country henges as in Bilston or Wednesbury or striding unwearied over St Kenelm’s Pass. He wanted the heart of the heart of England; he wished to be wed to the land of his birth incarnate. It was that earth he wanted to be earthed in, taken by the land which had bred him ( _tell them England hath taken me_ ).

And Liam wanted to be wanted; to be indispensable. They’d learnt that early on, when Zayn had let slip that early, band bye-name for him in _very_ un-band-like circumstances (he swore to this day they’d both of them blacked out briefly from the immediate result); and had never looked back.

Solid, dependable, Liam: a steady presence, a safe pair of hands … and a glorious freak in the bedroom, giving Zayn precisely what he was in want of. Zayn knew, Zayn knew, all the complex motives ( _speccy little swot sighing and swooning over the Captain of Games_ ) which drove him in his need, from the Fisher King who was one with the Arthurian land, to Kipling’s Norman knight in love with England and conquered by his conquest, to Housman’s fair country lads come to the fair (not _everything_ in their public personæ was made up of whole cloth); he knew, and he accepted the knowledge and the need, and the love with which Liam gave him what he was in want of.

Liam’s chuckle, soft in his burning ear, was dark as chocolate and port wine. ‘So, baby boy, my little princess princeling. First, golf with our _Downton_ chauffeur; then days with our very own Kyros and Dillon.... Tell me, baby. Were you a bad good boy? Or were you a good bad boy?’

‘D- _Daddy...._ ’

‘Mm. Baby.... All that ink, and all that _cool,_ and – you’re my baby all the same. Superstar and side-solo sensation … and even so. You want your Daddy, to look after you and guide you. All that ink, and it’s missing the one bit it ought to have anyroadup: I ought to have it tattooed on that pretty little arse. _“Princess”:_ just that.’

‘Oh! Daddy!’ Zayn squirmed: so far as he _could_ do, just then.

Liam chortled. ‘No, I’ll not do. Because no one’d see it bar me. _Ever._ And _I_ know without it. You can flirt like a little slut all you like. Even your body belongs to you, really –’

‘ _No,_ Daddy, to _you,_ all to you –’

‘– But that’s just it, baby, that’s exactly it: _you_ belong to me, as I belong to you. You’ve me heart; and – _your_ heart?’

Zayn stumbled over the words, in haste to get them out, to present them, to hand them and himself to Liam with his heart. ‘It belongs, _I_ belong, to Daddy.’

‘And Daddy’s going to treat you really well, baby. Now, what’ve you done – I know there’ll’ve been _summat_ – wants spanking for, first?’

‘ _Lots,_ Daddy,’ gasped Zayn, gagging on his own eagerness.

Liam smiled. ‘We’ve all night and all day tomorrow, baby. All. Night.’

And so they did have. And if Zayn – pliant and compliant, sated and satisfied, complaisant and rather smugly complacent about it – had no choice, the day after that next day, but to rearrange a scheduled promo appearance, well: Daddy could handle that as Daddy and Daddy’s strong hands handled _him._

 

* * *

  **FINIS**

* * *

 

 


End file.
